University of Virginia Library

ACT III.

SCENE I.

Mr. and Mrs. Worm.
Mrs. Worm.
But why, my Dear, did'st take this desp'rate Course?
Tho' Times are bad, we both have known them worse.
Reflect, my Life, when first you set up Trade,
Scarce had we Money, Love, to purchase Bread;
And hardly yet have seven Years gone round,
But you can fairly shew Ten Thousand Pound.

Mr. Worm.
Ay, there's my Grief; for less than two Years more
Cou'd not have fail'd t'have made that Ten a Score;
Another Year, if still our Trade had held,
That Twenty had to Thirty Thousand swell'd.
In our Elections then I'd been of Weight,
And I'd been courted even by the GREAT;
Honours and Money had flown in upon me,
And thou had'st been my Lady Worm, my Honey.

[Chucks her under the Chin.
Mrs. W.
Still there are Means to rise, you know the Court
Rewards all those who do its Schemes support.

Mr. W.
Against my Conscience and my Country vote?

Mrs. W.
These are mere Words, my Dear, you've got by rote.

Mr. W.
What! when my Country's Liberty's in Danger!

Mrs. W.
T'Affairs of State I find you are a Stranger.
About your Country you make much ado,
But what's its Rights or Liberties to you?
If you went bare foot, wou'd it give you Shoes?
And shou'd I for it an Advantage lose?
What by your Country must be understood,
The Soil, the Trees, the Rivers or the Wood?

Mr. W.
No, none of these, by Country you must know
Is meant the People.

Mrs. W.
—People! be it so.
Among them all name one wou'd give a Crown
If you were hang'd, my Dear, to cut you down.

Mr. W.
Ecod that's right—

[Considering.
Mrs. W.
—Oh is it so? then learn
That such a People is not worth Concern.
But be things bad, as even Caleb writes,
And that the Court designs upon our Rights;
That th'Army will impose the slavish Yoke;
Are you sufficient to avert the Stroke?

Mr. W.
Ecod that's true.

Mrs. W.
—Well then, if you foresee
You can't prevent impending Slavery,
Wou'd you for Company wear Chains, who might be free?

Mr. W.
Why no.

[Scratching his Head.
Mrs. W.
Which of the two, think you, the better fares,
Who plunder'd is, or who the Plunder shares?

Mr. W.
Why troth, my Dear, there's much in what you say.

Mrs. W.
By me be guided, I will make your Way.
To Riches and to Honour, tho' Trade fails.
To ev'ry Wind the Sailor trims his Sails;
He takes th'Advantage, when the Gale is fair,
But when its cross, does he for that despair,
Or in a Tempest lay aside all Care?

Mr. W.
Troth, that's well said—I find, my Dear, by you,
If one Trade won't, another Trade will do.
Let who will walk on Foot, or who can, ride;
He must want Brains who strives against the Tide.

Mrs. W.
You see the Winds root up the sturdy Oak,
The pliant Willow, never Tempest broke.

Mr. W.
Which is most likely Party of the two,
To plunder or be plunder'd, I would know;
For, as I said, I ne'er will stem the Tide,
That is, my Dear, I'll chuse the strongest Side.

Mrs. W.
Why that's no Question, Honey, 'tis the Court.

Mr. W.
I think it is, and I am sorry for't.
The Country is so poor, so much kept under,
That it will yeild, I fear, but little Plunder;
How'ere, I'm for the Court: there's Prudence shewn
When we cant get, that we can keep our own.
Enter a Servant.
Mr. Stillhead, Sir.

Worm.
—Where?

Serv.
—He waits below.
If you see Company, he'd gladly know.

Worm.
Pray shew him up.—

Mrs. W.
—I'll leave you.

Mr.
—Prithee why?

Mrs. W.
[Exit.
Enter Stillhead.

W.
The Nation's Sins, my Friend, enormous great!
Has harm'd us all to this destructive Fate.
They're Pride and Luxury, to which we owe,
These Days of Sorrow, and this Weight of Woe.
What flagrant Wickedness! in ev'ry Street,
Toupees, lac'd Wastecoats, and Queue Wigs we meet.
The Alehouses are grown so rich of late,
They scorn their Pewter, and drew all in Plate.
The Vintners too, may now for Sheriffs fine,
And even Poets dare Presume to dine:
Whores, Playhouses, Vauxhall, and Masquerade,
Lacemen and Cooks, Taylors and ev'ry Trade,
Which tend to Luxury have Fortunes made.
These are loud crying Sins!—

Stillhead.
—But why should all
The Punishment, upon Distillers fall?

Worm.
Short-sighted Mortals do so little know,
That Blessings, oft, they count a grievous Woe.

Still.
Why do'st thou think, Friend Worm, I cannot see
This Act has brought upon me Beggary.
I can't but break—

Worm.
But there are other Ways,
But which you may a greater Fortune raise.

Still.
But name me one.

Worm.
Why—you have good Invention,
Write for the Ministry, and get a Pension.

Still.
But I'm no Scholar—

Worm.
Where Learning brings a Man to keep his Chariot,
To Want, it dooms five hundred, and a Garret,
Of those who're curs'd with Merit to their Share,
'Twas never known that Fortune wou'd take care.
Suppose, as you're no Scholar, you shou'd take
To Bookselling, you may a Fortune make;
The Trouble's small, but monstrous are the Gains,
Which are extracted from poor Author's Brains?
The Bookseller's at Ease, his Authors work;
They are the harrass'd Slaves—he the Grand Turk

Still.
No, No; to this my Conscience can't submit.

W.
Why, where's the Harm, you only bite a Wit?
None calls it Cheating when the Biter's bit.
They rob old Books, t'impose upon the Town,
And you rob them, of what? what's not their own.
What think you, if you shou'd commence Attorney?

Still.
No, if I ever do, may Satan burn me;
What live by others Ruin and Vexation!
Copies of Writs, and those of Declaration,
Notice of Enquirey and Execution.

Worm.
Why now you talk methinks with Elocution,
You'll make a Figure in the Sheriff's Court,
Take to the Law: to cut the Matter short,
Where forty Shillings to the Plaintiff's due,
Full six Times, that the Charges bring to you.
You're sure of being paid, for let us say
The Plaintiff's poor and forc'd to run away,
What's that to you? You've the Defendant still;
Suppose him restiff, and won't pay your Bill,
Why sue him next, it brings more Grift to Mill.
Run him to Execution, strip his House,
And do not leave the Rascal worth a Souse.

Still.
I'd sooner beg, than live by licens'd Plunder.

Worm.
I fear your Conscience, long, will keep you under.
Turn Counsel then—

Still.
—What, Counsel without reading!

Worm.
Pshaw; Noise and Impudence pass now for pleading.
If your Opinion's ask'd on any Case,
First take your Fee, then with a thinking Face
Say you'll consider on't: you've much to do,
But they shall have it in a Day or two;
Next search your Books (soon as your Client's gone,)
You'll find a Case in Point 'tis ten to one;
But say you don't, sign what you guess is right;
If you are wrong, your Client suffers by't.
Not you—

Still.
Why what you now advance, I think is true;
But mayn't I thus some Families undo?

Worm.
Pshaw; that's Practice Man; 'tis your Client's Fault,
If when you leave him, he's not worth a Groat;
Ruin, by Law, was ever understood;
As Flies are Spider's, Fools are Lawyer's Food.

Still.
Shall I give Colour? No, I ne'er can do't
To puzzle Juries and protract a Suit:
Or else as void of Conscience and of Honour,
Frustrate the known Intent of some wise Donor;
Cut off Remainders by Recovery,
And give the Heir the Cryer as Vouchee?
Think you, this just, is this a Recompence?
Nay don't it shock a Man of common Sense,
To hear a Judge most learnedly decree
On what he knows is feign'd as well as we?

Worm.
E'n take to Physick, print, distribute Bills,
And vaunt some Nostrum, whether Drops or Pills;
Which cures all present, past, and future Ills.
A few hard Words, Narcotick, Sudorifick,
Nephritick with Cathartick and Prolifick,
Emetick and Hidropick, with few such
(Tho' misapply'd it does not Matter much)
With a bronz'd Front, full Wig, and solemn Looks,
Some Monsters Skins, some Butterflys, Greek Books;
Sea Feathers, Corrals, Embryo's in Wine,
Pieces of Rocks, and bits of Roman Coin,
Will set you up: Nay even less may do,
For Virtuoso and Physician too.
Doctors will thrive, while Fools in Britain swarm,
And that will be, while yours and my Head's warm.

Still.
But should I poyson by my Want of Skill,

Worm.
You'll gain Experience, Friend, by those you kill.
Those who recover tho' by Strength of Nature,
Will cry you up; and dead Men write no Satyr:
Lawyers by ruin live, your Bawds by billing,
But Army Men and Doctors live by killing.

Still.
Suppose I'm ask'd what 'tis my Patients ail?

Worm.
Oh! Doctors of an Answer never fail;
For if they'r puzzled; Rules of Art afford,
A Kakaxia, or some barb'rous Word.

Still.
If Virtues of my Med'cines they consult?

Worm.
You answer strait, the Quality's occult.
Come, come, we'll o're a Bottle find within
Some Succedaneum to our fallen Gin.

[Exeunt.
SCENE opens and discovers Bavius, Mævius, Scrub, Funk, Stitch, Smut, Japan, Steel, and others round a Table, with Alehouse Pots, Pipes and Tobacco.
Scrub.
The Cause of meeting here, there's none need tell,
'Tis too well known

Omnes.
—Ay indeed too well,

Scrub.
Let then each Man with Freedom speak his Mind,
And thus, perhaps, some Remedy you'll find.
But let us not in idle Speeches waste
The precious Time; the Ill requires haste,

Tun.
Most learnedly, O Scrub, you state the Case,
(Tho' it is such, as beggars all my Race:)
Wherefore, since we can nothing execute,
'Tis better to submit, than to dispute;
To our Petitions let us have recourse,
And not, by struggling, make our Case much worse.

Funk.
Let us resolve to have the Statute alter'd,
Or die like Men—

Tunn the Cooper.
—True; like Hero's halter'd.

Bavius.
Meanly Petition! No, our Soul's too great,
Let swift Destruction seize the cruel State;
To Arms, to Arms, 'tis Bavius will begin,
And Blood wash out the Statute against Gin.
To Souls like mine, Death is more glorious far,
Than mean Submission; wherefore I'm for War.
Enter Harlequin.
But see the Soul of Wisdom, Harlequin,
Comes to assist us in retrieving Gin.
Say thou Town's Joy, thou Source of Wit and Spirit,
Say thou who, only, art allow'd true Merit.
Shou'd Men like us e're condescend to sue!
No, let our Swords the cruel Act cut thro',
And bravely thus this Gordian Knot undo.

Harlequin waves his Wand, it thunders and lightens, Gin descends from the Clouds in the Shape of a Tun.
Gin.

[flies up.
Bav.
The Oracle for War declares, 'tis plain,
A mean Submission rivets on our Chain.
Harlequin makes Signs of hanging and quartering—they all shake their Heads.
Ha! do you shake your Heads, and can you falter,
Can Love of Life your Resolutions alter;
Or can you fear the Hangman's Knife or Halter.
Reflect, my Friends, Gin is the noble Cause
For which your Swords shou'd hew away the Laws,
Wipe out the Senate, drench in Blood the Nation,
And spread o're all the State wild Desolatïon:
But if your Swords are blunted by your Fear,
I'll singly in the glorious Cause appear.

Enter a Constable with a Proclamation in his Hand, Harlequin makes him a great many Compliments in Dumb shew.—
Constable.
Of this your Meeting having had Relation,
I'me come to read to all, the Proclamation.
And if you don't, as order'd, strait retire,
I'll bring the Guards, and order them to fire.
I fear some Treason hatching 'gainst the State,
So shall not long your Resolution wait.

Scrub.
I my Obedience in retiring shew,
Let the Brave stay, but let the prudent go.—

[Exit.
Bav.
I value not your Threats of Guards and fire,
But in Obedience to the Laws retire.—

[Exit.
Funk.
All Men of Sense, impending Danger shun,
What signifies my stay, I am but one.—

[Exit.
Tunn.
Let us, my Friends, all quietly go Home,

Omnes.
Ay, ay, that's best—

Constable.
—Away then clear the Room.

[Exeunt all before the Constable.